Brushing Shoulders Off

I know it's been awhile between posts. I'm feeling great but have been more preoccupied by the outer life than the inner lately. I took on a work assignment for the first time since March, and then started noticing all of the things around the house that needed to be done. Being a recluse will do this to you.  I'm usually not such a freak about ill-fitting slipcovers. 

In the yard, I noticed my flower beds were starting to look like something out of the History Channel's “Life After People." Vegetation, weeds and bramble were taking over due to a lack of human intervention.  I had to take care of this lest we be invaded by feral cats.  (Seriously, have you seen this show? I have to get out more.) Anyway, weeding was therapeutic in more ways than one.  Got that dirt off my shoulders.

I planted some sunflowers with Caroline and Paulie while Vito attacked his reflection in the garden shovel (I know how you feel, V).  Like every year, we planted some tomatoes in big pots on the deck.  Even though we have room for a garden now, I can't help but do the containers. It's the Eastie in me.  My friend D.  noted it's only a matter of time before we "hot top" the backyard and plant a Bathtub Madonna amid the rhododendrons.  Can't have a yard without a shrine!

Follicle Magic

These days, I tend to avoid all mirrors or anything that produces a reflection.  There are times --  in between weekly drips and getting felt up by Czechoslovakian exchange students -- when I actually forget about the BC.  Then I'll see a reflection in my computer screen and it's right in my face: the glare off my bald head, eyes without eyebrows, the outline of a do-rag.  The alternatives aren't great: Headscarves make me look like Stephen Van Zandt. My raspberry beret, like a Guardian Angel.  My wig, kind of southern -- way too coiffed.  All are reminders, not just to me, but to everyone around me.

Aside: If I'm out and sense someone is uncomfortable, I will pull my wig way back on my head, giving myself a good Jan Brady five-head.  This tends to loosen people up.

Whenever I'm heading out with Caroline, she's adamant: "Mom! Whatever you do -- Do NOT forget your wig!" I originally thought she was embarrassed by the baldness.  But once we're out, she gives me up to everyone within earshot: “Do you like my mommy’s wig? She's actually bald.” 

Last week, I got out of the shower -- spaced out on autopilot -- and accidentally wiped off the steamed up mirror.  I saw a shadow on my head.  At first, I thought it was dirt.  When I tried to brush it off, my head felt fuzzy! Upon closer inspection, I realized I was definitely sprouting some fresh new follicles. The docs told me my hair could *possibly* start growing back in the Taxol/Herceptin phase of treatment, but not to expect it. I didn’t expect it.  And while it's not much, it’s something.  

Even though it could take up to six months to have a covering of hair, I have to say these first few follicles restored a little faith.  I always had a fairly optimistic outlook on life. Whenever I was going through a bad patch, I would flip ahead a few months on my desk calendar, pick a random date, and write something like: "Are things better?”  Usually, by the time I got to the selected date, things would have improved. This whole BC thing, for whatever reason, robbed me of that sense of things turning around.  Treatment is slow and long and it's easy to believe that you'll never feel or look like yourself again. It's easy to believe whatever the insidious bitch BC tells you.  The disease not only screws with your boobs but your head. 

So, my sense of things turning around has returned, at least for now.  This morning, I noticed the expiration date on the orange juice was June 29th.  Instead of gloomily focusing on the words "expiration date," my first thought was: "By June 29th, I will have been finished with chemo for a whole week."  ~Brushing shoulders off~

Bring on the Roadies

Of course, the inner hag wants to shelve the blueberries and quinoa for marbled meats, a few packets of Sweet & Low and a cigarette.  So far, I've pegged the BC on everything from shitty karma to hot dogs.  Last month, it was wine. "Our Daily Red." It's time to turn that around too and release the inner torment/hag/blame.  Get that dirt off your shoulders.  Live healthy, move forward, vices in moderation. And get out of the house more!

My final chemo is June 22. (Four more!)  I'm thinking about a roadie on the way home from the DF, a dirty martini in a to-go cup.  

"Remember what the drowning man said -- a little drunk is better than dead." 

Hats off in the HOV Lane

Two weeks ago, after a particularly long and slow treatment, we were rushing back from the DF, trying to make a Mother's Day Tea at the kids' school.  Of course, there was heavy traffic and by the time we reached Dorchester, we had to cut across four lanes to get into the HOV lane. We made it over in time, only to get pulled over by a State Trooper at the entrance.

James pulled over and looked at me: "Quick! Take off your hat!"

A perfect opportunity to play the cancer card. 

I whipped off my hat and leaned over the driver's seat so the trooper could get a good peek at my dome. James handed him the license and registration.

ME:  My fault. I am late for a Mother's Day event at school. We're in a hurry, the traffic, etc.

ST: (Totally unfazed, probably thinking I was a skinhead).  Reckless driving, lane switching not safe, not cool, etc. 

ME:  But officer, we are rushing back from, you know, chemo.

He let us go.  James' quick thinking saved the day. I made it to the event, a little late, but had had time to get the wig on!

WITH THANKS AND LARGE LOVE...

...to my good friends Stevie B. and Colleen.  Both have been mentioned numerous times on the PU over the years.  Colleen left Boston several years ago to go work for the American Cancer Society in DC. While she no works longer there, she still participates in the Society's Annual Relay for Life. This year, she's assigned my name to her cause. I was overwhelmed by her letter.

This is Steven's 3rd time riding the Pan Mass Challenge.  This year he's dedicated his ride to his dad who just finished treatment for colon cancer, and also to me. He even mentions the PU on his page. His said no tears allowed. Too late, Stevie B. 

Thank you (with love) to both of you and everyone else who participates in these events, gives back, or just gives because they can. 

Please check them out!

Colleen-Relay for Life

Stevie B.—Pan Mass Challenge

************************************

Seven Songs of the Day -- 5/26/09 

1. Milk -Kings of Leon

2. Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots -Flaming Lips

3. Chocolate Town -Ween

4. I Know I'm Not Alone -Michael Franti and Spearhead

5. Sweet Virginia -Rolling Stones

6. One Big Holiday -MMJ (strong NED theme contention)

7. Fees So Good -Chuck Mangione Live at the Holiday Bowl

 **Bonus/Filler: Mahna Mahna -Cake

 --Today's playlist comes courtesy of Alex Scalisi in SF! Thanks, AS!

Seven Songs of the Day 

1. Whatever Gets You Through the Night - John Lennon 

2. The Way We Get By - Spoon

3. Paper Boats - Nada Surf

4. Farewell to the Old Me - Dar Williams

5. Death of a Disco Dancer - The Smiths

6. Sulk - Billy Bragg

7. Takes A lot to Laugh, Takes a Train to Cry - Bob Dylan

Meh-na Meh-na

Live, DF 10

It's been awhile.  All is well, just meh.  I’ve been reluctant to put up a post because I couldn't do so without sounding like a miserable camel.  So much to say, but my head is swimming too much to write coherently.  I've been climbing out of the haze -- slowly -- and should be back this week.  Six more weeks of chemo. Getting there, slowly.  In the meantime...

 

 

It's a Go-Go

4 p.m., Apr. 27, DF Caf
We're nibbling on some veggies and dip waiting for the DF 10 pager to go off and call us up to the Infusion floor. I'm reading an awesome New Yorker article on Muzak that my friend N. passed along.

We're on an upside down schedule today, here much later than usual, waiting for the lab to determine whether my blood counts are Taxol-worthy. Even if they're not, I'll still be getting the Herceptin, the antibody that supposedly shrivels up the bitch that is HER2. So, here we wait.

Aside:
Caroline: Mama, what's a swine?
Me: A pig.
Caroline: Why isn't it just called "pig flu."

Looking around, I'm starting to believe that Code Red was right about the MJ mask being "trendy" amid all the pig flu hoopla. While I've been coming to the DF since the end of January, I've never seen SO many masked patients wandering the corridors. And this is a place where you'd expect to see masked people, pig flu notwithstanding. Is everyone just in from Mexico?

Muzak Riveted
Anyway, I'm really into this Muzak piece. Did you know why it was dubbed "elevator music?" Me neither. Apparently, when skycrapers first came on the scene (bringing multi-floor elevators along with them), people were anxious about riding up 50 floors in these little boxes suspended on wires in narrow vertical corridors. The music supposedly lessened the anxiety while their ears popped. It's the same reason why dentist offices adopted Muzak -- to take the edge off the horrifying reality that someone is about to drill into your skull via your maw.

I get that, I just don't get how string instrumentals of Elvis Presley tunes could possibly have a calming effect. I clearly remember being at the Finast supermarket with my mother -- I was probably 7 or 8 years old. A trumpeted Muzaked version of Him by Rupert Holmes came on and made me furious. "They're ruining it," I thought.

Anyway, Muzak is no longer in the elevator/dental office business, they are no longer maiming songs with harpsichords and tubas -- unless you're in Japan where business owners routinely request "contemporary instrumentals of popular songs" for some reason. Whenever you hear playlists of songs in their original formats -- at supermarkets, retail stores, restaurants -- there is a good chance it's Muzak. I always assumed it was satellite radio.

Muzak is also rampant at the loathsome mall. Which is no suprise. The mall is to me what the elevator was to those skyscraper newbies. I feel suffocated, barked at, like the floor could fall out from beneath me at any time. Still, sometimes it's unavoidable.

Marketing to Mall Rats with Muzak 101, and a little Falco.

Hollister or Abercrombie: Homogenous techno beats pump out at you from behind beveled room dividers and fake ficuses. The design, as well as the crappy techno, are meant to convey exclusivity, like that of a NYC nightclub or in this case, a keg party in the really, really good part of the woods with hardly any animal droppings. It's also useful in repelling 39-year-olds and others of my ilk: "You are way too old to come in here, lady. You'll just get confused." ** Not to worry, though, nieces and nephews, gift cards will always be purchased when requested, they'll just be purchased online.**

Ann Taylor: According to Muzak, AT's clientele is conservative women who don't want to take any fashion risks, just look polished. They just want everything "bright, positive, optimistic, and uplifting." So, Muzak tends to pipe in Sting and Celine Dion (huh? CD, uplifting? Don't most people want to see her crossing the street against the light?)

Gap or Old Navy: Since customers range from infants to adults, Muzak often throws covers of old songs into the mix. Think: Counting Crows doing Joni Mitchell's "Big Yellow Taxi."

Now I'm wondering what the Muzak soundtrack for Tello's in the 1980s would have been. What songs would have enhanced the experience of strolling those racks of impeccable cheese, searching for Jordache bags, neon socks and purple rayon with a stolen grape Fanta from Liberty Market in your hand. One song I always remember blaring in there was "Lover Girl" by Teena Marie, the employees dancing and mouthing the words as they organized thongs and beaded barrettes behind the counter.

Still, I'm thinking: How is this Muzak any different from satellite radio? My question is answered just a few paragraphs later. Whereas satellite radio does genres, Muzak does customization to the base right down to the song segue. Being a slave to (and never disappointed by) my Party Shuffle on iTunes, I totally get this. Many people have simliar mindsets, but not everyone dresses the same. In other words, sometimes a little well-placed Falco goes a long way.

I also get this because I went through a phase where I would only listen to satellite radio but my craving for musical variety along with my being too lazy to channel surf won out and lured me back to the college radio airwaves where I can hear Bob Dylan one second and Cat Power the next. In fact, my entire musical M.O. these days involves Shazaming songs from WERS and downloading them to my iPod.

Segueing...

Having new music on the Pod is actually creating an incentive to exercise and right now, I am in need of an epic, cobweb-shedding walk.

Aside: There's a 90-year-old man that lives next door to us that takes his daily walk (shuffle) past our house. Every day, he walks about 100 yards down the street to a little sidewalk bridge that goes overs a brook. He rests there on a wrought iron bench for a few moments before turning back. Vito, who remains staunch in his belief that nobody else has a right to exist let alone walk by our house, barks at the man every day, menacing him back and forth from behind his invisible fence barrier. The man, depending up on his mood, greets him with: "Hello, big fella!" or "Up yours, fatso!" James said he was going to ask our elderly neighbor if he needed a walking partner since a 100-yard shuffle is about my speed these days. All I need is some tube socks, etc. Very funny. I refused to give in to the way-too-close-to-home humor of his suggestion. I told him that when I walk, I must walk alone.

5 p.m. It's a Go! BTW, were you just released from a concentration camp?
James is reading aloud a story from ESPN the Mag about a service called Cha Cha where you can text any question -- anything -- to 242242 and receive an answer within three minutes. (I'd never heard of this, but in under 24 hours, I've seen it everywhere. There is also a similar service called KGB.)

I'm in mid-celery stick, trying to think of a question to ask when our pager goes off and we're heading up to the DF 10 Infusion.

My fellow/doctor Katie meets us there to let us know that my white counts are back up -- way up -- higher than is even necessary. So not only is treatment a go for today, we're also going to scale back on the Neupogen shot this week, only twice instead of thrice. This is all music to my ears. It's going to be a MUCH better week.

Without a doubt, the past week was the toughest one since treatment started on Feb 2. I hit the wall for sure (but not the floor, not yet). I knew being hermetically sealed off from the rest of the world for 7 days was going to suck but at the same time, I looked forward to some enforced downtime: I would finally catch up on emails and FB, maybe do some writing. When the sun finally came out, I would read my book on my back deck or sit by the brook with Vito and let the kids run around. Regroup, restore and rest. Aside from reading with Roxicet, none of this went down. James ended up having to take the entire week off because I saw white dots just going up and down the stairs. Then there were the Neupogen side effects: Headache, bone pain and spine pain (what!??), all of which were in full effect and rendered me completely horizontal or stooped over with an icy eyemask and a heating pad for the entire week. Then the antibiotic I was taking gave me some kind of stomach flu and melted away about 7 pounds, so I am not only bald but skeletal -- concentration-camp chic. Katie notes my birdlike physique and prescribes donuts for the week to bulk up. If I weren't at the DF, I'm sure I could be mistaken for a recently released prisoner.

7 p.m. Guess the Nurse Part IV
Today, we have a different chemo nurse because we had to come much later in the day. The sun is starting to set outside. The other patients who were sitting across from us have all cleared out. My veins, after three MF IVs, have finally started cooperating and opened up a pathway for those antibodies and poisons. It's clear we are going to be here awhile. I'm on my 12th Jolly Rancher. James, of course, discovers some fresh sandwiches in the fridge. We wolf those down in seconds.

We're really in need of a chemo buddy. Because of the uncertainty of this week's schedule, I couldn't line up anyone. James is awesome, my constant, but he's living inside of this too; he welcomes the healing distractions of an outsider or a not-so-outsider. Doreen came last time, bringing her positive energy, laughs and the hilarious story of purchasing an authentic $1,500 Gucci purse for under $300 -- while at Jeveli's in Eastie. As a BC survivor, she also brought consolation, saying that BC has got to be better than that anal cancer that poor Farah Fawcett has. She would've been great at our guess-where-the-nurse-is-from game, but we had our faithful Judy from Norwood that week.

James, having read his mag cover to cover, now turns his focus to the new nurse and from where she hails. The dark haired woman, early 30ish, is not feeling him. She won't even glance in his general direction when he starts peppering her with questions. I've never seen this before. Granted, the nurse is very busy this evening, one of the few nurses still on the infusion floor past 7 p.m. She's very talkative with me, but mostly she because is intent on making sure the drugs are seeping into my vein and not the surrounding tissues. I have too much Benadryl in my bloodstream and am too loopy to ask the right small talky questions even if I could get away with them, which I can't. Not the way James typically can. "She won't give me anything, not a thing!" he says, frustrated.

Right now, he's floundering in his usual stellar attempts at idle chit chat: "Are we your last patients of the day," he asks her. She smiles at him and it looks like she's about to throw him a bone, but only says,"Oh no, I'm here until 8:30." When she walks away, James, with the most minimal info to date, confidently states: "North of Boston: Wilmington, Woburn, Winchester, one of those." I shake my head in agreement. North of Boston. Sound guesses, for sure, but not ones I would've blurted out so soon.

I googled the nurse this morning. She is from Woburn! What can I say..it's a gift!

The Network, Walking & Go Go Dancing
This past week, I was emailing/FBing with friends/fam, Paula, Julie, Lisa Daria, Evanne and Heather, all of whom have gone through different cancer treatments. Every single one suffered almost identical setbacks, healing crises of sorts, right around the same time as I did. It usually hit around the fourth week of Taxol or a couple of months into their treatments. Some even ended up in the ER for a few days. But it sounds like things do turn around once you've hit this new low in WBCs.

Julie said what ends up happening is that you're over-the-top happy on the days you actually feel good. Feeling good is a higher high.

This is how I feel today. It's beautiful outside, it's a feel-good day and I'm elated. Cued up: "I think I'll go for a walk outside now, the summer sun's calling my name (I hear ya now). I just can't stay inside all day, I gotta get out get me some of those rays.."

I AM going to take a walk right now because quoting Brady Bunch songs on the PU kind of makes me want to punch myself in the back of the head, just a little.

When I return, I might install go-go dancing platforms all around my house.

*********************

Seven Songs of the Day -- 4/29/2009

Today's playlist (with those explanations that I love) comes courtesy of Chris Seremetis. Thanks, Tif!

1. God Am - Alice In Chains, just cause it's fun to say 7 times fast
2. Pass the Mic - Beasties Boys, cause the line: "be true to yourself and you will never fall" is awesome
3. I'll Stick Around - Foo Fighters, cause they rock
4. Rusty Cage - Johnny Cash, cause he's the only who could sing it better than Cornell
5. Stardog Champion - Mother Love Bone, grunge!
6. Do What You Want - OK Go, cause we should all do so
7. Be Free - The Cult, "to be free, like the birds and the bees" cause Billy Duffy just rocks the angry chords

Hermetically Sealed, Hermit-Like

(It was only a matter of time)

I thought I'd finally adjusted to the undercurrent of dull energy that shuffles me through each day. For whatever reason, just knowing this is a temporary state helped me resume a normal, albeit slo-mo clip, throughout this past week.  We had some friends over.  Took the kids to the beach. Celebrated James' birthday a bit.  Caroline and I went to fashion show fundraiser with everyone on Sunday.  Some said I looked kind of pale -- but like being eyelashless, it was nothing a ridiculous amount of make-up couldn't fix.  I may walk around looking like Norma Desmond in a suburban-blonde wig, but again -- it's temporary. Dealable. All we need is a little sunshine. But then, I couldn't get my treatment yesterday. The docs sent me home from the DF with dangerously low white blood counts, some preemptive antibiotics, Neupogen syringes, and a Michael Jackson mask.  They basically said no public places, no visitors, no nuthin' until the WBCs climb out of the red, or the white hot as the case may be.  Because if get so much as a wee fever, I'll have to be admitted to the hospital. Funtime.  They said the Neupogen shots should turn this thing around by the end of the week.  So, until then, I'll be in some form of drug-induced repose. 

Call the Waaambulance: The Not-So-Merry Recluse

Pointy Note: Today and the next few days will be a compilation of many posts from the past week. I've been out of commission, down but certainly not out!

On Easter Sunday, I threw my winter clogs into the brook behind my house. We pulled into the driveway, returning home from dinner at my parents. I took off my shoes, strode through the soggy, bloated yard and chucked each shoe as hard as I could into the water. The windswept rain from the past week had turned our peaceful bubbling brook into the River Wild; the clogs got swept up in the current and flew downstream like two harbor seals in swift retreat. James looked on in stunned silence as I slogged back up the driveway in my muddy socks. Caroline and Paulie laughed and began to remove their shoes but we got them to cease and desist.

To me, those clogs represented the mental and physical rut I've been in for weeks. Better to take out my frustration on a pair of Steve Maddens then on the people I love, I say.

"Hang up your chairs to better sweep, clear the floor of the dance, throw the walls into the fireplace." - REM

It was time to clear some cobwebs. I'd been sporting those MF clodhoppers since November. In the beginning, they were a somewhat stylish alternative to the woolly suburban footwear I spy around these parts that tend to be too flat for me -- at 5'3" -- to wear with jeans or a loathsome sweatsedo (and I absolutely refuse to have yoga pants hemmed). The clogs were safer than high-heeled boots that sink into the grass, trip you up and muddy your arse. I wore those clogs to all of my doctors appointments as I spiraled toward my diagnosis. To all of my chemo infusions thus far. I wore them throughout this seemingly endless April cold snap. But most of all, I wore the clogs because my unforgiving Chemobrain precludes shoe shopping because I don't even know what I like anymore.

On our home computer, we have a scrolling slideshow of all the pictures on our hard drive and I barely recognize my old self. Suppah Clubs and Nantucket trips, gardening with the kids last summer, kitchen hanging with James on a random weeknight. I can't reconcile the person in the photos with the bald, lashless, hollow-cheeked hag in a do-rag I see today. I belong on the Sci Fi Channel.

Second Phase of Ass
I'm not delusional. I wasn't expecting round two of chemo to be a joyride on the ding dong cart. I did not expect to start punctuating my sentences with woo hoos or for my energy levels to be restored to 2008 proportions. I was just expecting to bounce back a little. Granted, this second phase is not NEARLY as soul sucking as the first. But since the treatment is every Monday instead of every other Monday, I am subsisting on a steady stream of low (low!) energy with zero in-between days. I'm a naturally high-energy person so this can be frustrating at times.

For instance, last week the sun shone for a few hours and temps edged toward the high 50s. I put on my wig and a Sox cap. I grabbed the iPod and headed out for a walk, volume cranked as a forcefield. I barely made it around the loop without sucking wind. Vito would've put me to shame.

It's not just the energy. I can't do errands, attend the kids' soccer games, or go out to dinner with James or friends without feeling completely self conscious. And, call the waaambulance, I'm tired of having to reach for my wig whenever the doorbell rings (that is, if I even answer the door). I'm becoming a total recluse.

Hermit Flashback, Summer 1986
This feeling isn't completely foreign to me. I started remembering another time when I felt freakish and hermetic. When I was 16, I had a back operation to straighten my lower spine that was dangerously curving toward my left lung (the original Lefty, I suppose). I was in the hospital for two weeks and then had to wear a back brace for six months that was basically a large plastic girdle. Though you really couldn't see the brace under my clothes, it made me appear excessively hippy and flat chested. NOT good for an achingly self-conscious 16 year old. The only thing my friends and I ever did was go to the beach. Since bathing suits were out of the question, I stayed in the house the rest of the summer eating potato chips and watching the Peoples Court. When school started, I wore baggy, XL sweaters as camouflage (which were luckily the style in 1986). But soon, I became paranoid that people (boys) would physically bump into me in the halls and think I was some kind of bionic-plastic freak. So before school, I started taking the girdle off in the Dunkin' Donuts bathroom in Kenmore Square and stuffing it into by book bag. After school, I'd return to the same DD's and put it back on. One day, however, I decided to swing into Planet Records on my way home and my worst fears were realized. Three boys from my school (a few grades ahead of me) were skulking around and one accidentally brushed by me. He raised an eyebrow, then knocked on my back three times. Cardiac arrest. His other two friends walked behind me and did the same. I was so mortified I ran out of the store still clutching an empty record sleeve. I ran all the way down Comm, Ave with a 20-pound bag of books, praying I'd be hit by a bus. So, this bald 39 year-old in a do-rag is not so different inside from that 16 year old hiding out in Dunkin' Donuts bathrooms.

The Not-so-Merry-Recluse
Caroline Knapp often wrote about the difference between solitude and isolation. In her essay "The Merry Recluse," she wrote that social muscles, like actual ones, must be flexed often so they don't become atrophied. Man, when she was right, she was right. I love my solitude, but I've been inching toward isolation these past couple of weeks -- and not just from the outside world. I've become delinquent among all my social mores: Email, Texting, Facebook, Twitter -- the lifelines of a lifelong phone-hater.

It was clear I needed to get out immediately! So, after four or five cancellations, we were finally able to nail down dinner plans with old Big Dig pals. (A dinner plan that had become so complicated to arrange that my friend Kathy likened it to "assembling the Pentagon")

Thurs., Apr 9, Batten down the wig! Off to Mistral!

My fierce wig was filthy so I decided to go with my long red one from Dorothy's Boutique. It doesn't fit as well but I figured it'd work fine in the dark corners of Mistral. But when I pulled into the parking lot and caught sight of myself in my rear view mirror, I immediately regretted leaving my safety zone. My wig had ridden up very high on my forehead and had shifted to the left. I knew it wouldn't stay put all night long so I gathered my drag queen hair into a side ponytail and sprayed it to stone with some archaic hairspray I found in the glovey. Of course, the ever present high winds prevailed and I held onto my wig for dear life as I walked upwind on Columbus Ave. As I passed Club Cafe, two men who I'm sure could spot a Dorothy's wig a mile away turned to look at me. I imagined them whispering, "What's up with girlfriend in Red Hot #7." I'm pretty sure the doormen and hostess at Mistral looked at me sideways too. I felt like everyone was on to me.

At the bar, it was hugs all around. I became more at ease after a dirty, filthy martini. But all was not well with me. Besides expressing mild horrification at learning that some of the men at our old office used to refer us as "The Spice Girls," I couldn't remember how to participate in a normal conversation. There was a heated exchange about Tom, Gisele and Bridget and some recent Vanity Fair article. My eloquent contribution to this was something like: "They're dicks. All three of them. Dicks."

I was definitely a merry spectator all evening, however, tucking into my beef tenderloin pizza with white truffle oil.

Aside: I was chewing slowly and deliberately on one side because of some leftover mouth sores from AC chemo that simply won't heal. I was able to coherently reassure my friends that I was NOT having a stroke at the dinner table.

Return of the Sunday Night Creepies
When I threw my shoes into the brook the other night, I think it may have been in defiance of a new brand of Sunday night creepies. Knowing that you have chemo every Monday colors Sunday nights with a dread similar to that of knowing you have to get up and go to a job you hate the next day. Years ago, when James and I hated our jobs, we would listen to "Blues on Sunday" on 92.9 FM and wallow in the creepies. It's a similar feeling now. Although I'm pretty sure I prefer chemo to the PR firm where I used to work.

My former co-worker and good friend Brad (or "Sugar Brad" going forward for the Hermes scarf he sent to cover my bald head when temps get too balmy for wigs.) used to make nooses out of paperclips during interminable, pointless meetings. The meetings were bad enough but lunchtime in that suburban office park was pure, unadulterated hell. Every day in the lunchroom, a keg-shaped account manager would hold court with her little Igors on such scintillating topics as: *I like sweet pickles * So and So's husband wants to buy a camper * How many Weight Watchers points are in this mini Charleston Chew * On Fridays, they'd all ply themselves with generic salsa, shitty margarita mix and manufactured outrage.

Yes, I'm certain I prefer the DF on Mondays over that place.

Guilt...
When I get into a rut, the guilt piles up quickly. I feel like a crappy, inattentive mother who can't even muster the energy for a game of iPhone checkers let alone go on a bike ride. Some days, I feel like the roles are reversed. Caroline recently asked if she could read ME a bedtime story. Paulie patted my do-rag and asked if I needed a juice box and a snack.

...then Laughter


Caroline busts out her karaoke mic and sings the National Anthem before Bruins games. Paulie follows it with the Renee Rancourt pointing and fist pumping.








James got Paul a giant T map of all the rail lines for his room and he almost fainted.

PAULIE: (walking into his room earlier today) Mom, I keep forgetting about my train map. Every time I walk into my room, I get excited about it all over again. C'mon, look at my map with me. I want to show you where Haymarket is.

At the playground a few weeks ago, Caroline ran to the top of a structure where a group of boys were playing around a large captain's wheel.

CAROLINE: (commandeering the wheel). This is a ship! I am the captain! All of the boys, get into the water! (They all did)

She'd make an awesome Somali pirate.

Things that are Better than a Giant Plastic Bag of Happy Pills from my Doctor

Retro WWII dishtowels, TimTams, fragrant soaps, CDs, New Yorker articles and other magical mystery care packages from the Roving Lemon (not Rovingle Mon) Down Under.





Molly Kristant Brown







A good kitchen chinwag in SoBo with Nic & Di




Nic sporting the Snuggie










People I don't have to put on wigs for when they ring the doorbell: LPD and her Vertical Watermelon belly bumrushing the house with all kinds of good cheer.




James photographing, then fishing my clogs out of the brook, hosing them down and dropping them off at the Swap Shop at the dump. Sayonara, sad footwear.





So, the curmudgeonly ruts are a reality but they are fleeting.

Now I have to go cut about an inch off my yoga pants so I can wear my sneakers with them.

*************************************************************
Seven Songs of the Day -- 4/14/09

Today's playlist courtesy of Dawn Flanagan-Haley

"I tried to think of songs that reminded me of spring, but I’m not even really sure why these do" - DFH

1. House of Love – I Don’t Know Why I Love You
2. Throwing Muses – Not Too Soon
3. Belinda Carlisle – Circle in the Sand
4. The Cowsills – The rain, the park and other things
5. The Cardigans – Carnival
6. Elvis Costello – Veronica
7. The Beautiful South – We Are Each Other

Chemo Brain in Full Effect: The Chemosabes' Daily Fight Againt Idiot Slippage

"Chemobrain," an affliction that turns otherwise coherent individuals into full-on space shots and glassy-eyed fools during and after chemotherapy, is no longer considered a myth thanks to people like Ellen Clegg, an editor at the Globe, who wrote THE book on it this year, "Chemobrain: How Cancer Therapies Can Affect your Mind." Ellen also had a fantastic piece in the Globe Magazine yesterday entitled "The Cloud over Chemotherapy" that I'm re-reading here today at DF on the TH drip (where I just overheard the nurses saying they've already canceled Opening Day because of the MF rain. Boo.)

The book, which I read cover-to-cover the day it arrived in the mail, talks about what happens after your hair and energy return. About how that spaced out feeling often lingers, leading to impaired memory and an inability to concentrate or multitask. Many doctors, including many here at DF, are starting to take these mental curve balls seriously, offering ways to combat one's slippage into slack-jawed idiocy. (And we idiots appreciate it).

Ellen blogs about the topic daily on her blog Chemo Brain Boston and offers great advice to those on or off the toxic stew. She also gave the PU a much- appreciated shout out here.

All of the information is fantastic not only for us Chemosabes, but also for anyone forgetful or spacey by nature. You can learn how to open up those neural pathways by exercising your body and brain, clearing your mind of distractions, and controlling your environment to your benefit.

I am a self-anointed guinea pig in this area and have hereby offered my Chemobrain stories to Ellen Clegg for any second editions.

Here are some of my symptoms below (some of which could also indicate an onset of Tourettes Sydrome)

"I've never been too good with names, but I remember faces." Not anymore. Now I'm horrible with both. I completely blanked on the name of our mailman of almost four years -- Stu. How do forget a name like Stu? It's the all-time best mailman name that ever existed. (Caroline and Paul reminded me as they bumrushed the mailbox upon his arrival. "STU!!!!!! MAIL!!!!") In the past two weeks alone, I've called my neighbor Alan, "Earl" and another neighbor Rich, "Ken." I completely forgot the names and faces of some parents with whom I've had full conversations at Paulie's school. This weekend, I did the same at Caroline's soccer game, but I think I was just preoccupied. There were some very high winds blowing and I was mentally preparing myself in case my wig flew off and rolled down the field like a renegade tumbleweed.

Typist Idiotus: At one time, I could type a ridiculous amount of error-free words per minute. I was a typing savant; my skills were sought after by many a temp agency in the early 1990s and garnered me several "Temp of the Month accolades" that involved my Polaroid hanging by the elevator banks and a couple of $25 gift certificates to Souper Salad. Now, everything I write is littered with typos and grammatical errors (the sneaky kinds that elude spell check) And whenever I type the word "this," it comes out as "shit." My unconscious mind must have a sense of humor.

Driving with Geggy Tah: I've always been a terrible driver but now I've become a scary one. Recently, I was meeting a friend in Braintree for lunch and forget which Exit I was supposed to get off of. "Get a grip, Kathy!" When I tried to bring up the address on my phone, I started lane swerving like a daytime DUI. Luckily, the moment passed and I was able to recall the exit number, but not before becoming a justifiable target of Route 3 road ragers. Thankfully, some motorists (I love the word "motorist.") were more patient with me and let me switch lanes at the last second so I didn't miss my Exit or sideswipe the guardrail. To these patient drivers, I mentally dedicated the impossibly addictive tune "Whoever You Are" by Geggy Tah: "All I want to do is to thank you, even though I don't know who you are. You let me change lanes, when I was driving in my car." It's still stuck in my XS head, however.

Aside: Looking back, it was not so much my memory coming back at it was Gail Sheena's voice entering my head. She was always the reassuring voice of reason from my backseat: "Um, I think you're OVERSHOOTING it a little," as she used to say -- quite calmly -- just before I blew past the parking lot at whatever bar or restaurant we were trying to find.

Things accidentally put in the fridge: Vito's leash, an Anthropologie catalogue, Caroline's detangling spray.

MF Dishwasher: I've emptied more than three dishwashers full of dirty dishes. James usually walks into the kitchen just as I've placed the final coffee mug onto its shelf. "I think those were dirty." *Stream of kitchen profanity* "Mom, please stop staying naughty bathroom words. I'll call the Easter Bunny" - Caroline

Cafe Rodgriguez, Anyone?: I've long chided poor James for his mispronouncements of restaurants, i.e., "Cafe Rodriguez" for Casa Romero, "The Groratoria" for Circes Grotto, or "Astros" for "Cosmos." This weekend, I doggedly insisted that the name of the tapas place we wanted to try in Marshfield was "Ole." Then why couldn't any of us find it on Google or 411? Because I insisted it was "Ole, in Liberty Plaza RIGHT ON 139." In reality it was "Hola, in Library Plaza in RIGHT OFF 139." Hello? We finally found it after driving up and down Ocean Avenue with a GPS that led us to a nice cul-de-sac off Liberty Street before locating the restaurant in a strip mall next to Kokopelli's tanning salon.

Misplaced: Every day, my shoes. But I think this is less Chemobrain than it is James' gaslighting me. Sure he grumbles about "land mines" and how I'm trying to kill him by leaving my shoes strewn in his path, but we all know he's facilitating my devolution into dementia at age 39.

Sidenote to Ellen: I'm sure you already do, but please ignore the crazy ass troglodytes who post on the Globe's message boards. (any message boards, actually) At least 85 percent of them are angry old coots, spewing crumbs on their keyboards as they type (with plenty of spelling errors) their bitter tirades. They are camels, one and all.

***********************************
Seven Songs of the Day 4/6/2009

Today's Seven Songs come courtesy of Tom Haley, complete with explanation. Thanks T-Bag!

1. April Skies – Jesus & Mary Chain (I figured, Fuck March)
2. Story Of My Life – Social Distortion
3. Dog Gone – Frank Black
4. Nevertheless – Brian Jonestown Massacre
5. Elvis Presley & America – U2 (I had to put down at least one U2 song, and there aren’t many underplayed ones left)
6. On The Road To Find Out – Cat Stevens
7. Good Feeling – Violent Femmes (la laa, la laa la-la-la-laa…)

Meeting Halfway, then Backsliding, in Newburyport

Sat. March 28
With Chrissy and Amy coming from New Hampshire and Goy and I from the South Shore, it was really more like 3/4 of the way but Newburyport was the perfect place for our long overdue night out. Chrissy had to be close enough to be dropped off because, even though she's traveled as far and wide as China, she still can't bring herself to drive on the highway. Amy, who is the mother of four kids, took comfort in the fact that she only lived 20 minutes way.

("No crumpets, no crumpets")

True to form, Chrissy showed up for a 24-hour outing with a suitcase the size of a small office building and a curling iron wrapped in a floral, curling-iron cozy. Amy brought in a huge tray of organic cookies and muffins and teas -- and a sleeping bag, which she promptly set up on top of her bed at the Essex Street Inn as we looked on, bewildered.

"You guys, I spend my Friday nights watching 20/20, ok, " she said, covering her pillow with another piece of fabric brought from home. She told us about an expose that 20/20 recently ran on the nastiness that lurks within the microscopic fibers of hotel bedding. She also shared her firsthand experience of staying in a Foxboro motel with Mike (her husband) after a Patriots' game where a chain-smoking chamber maid discovered a cookie on the floor next to their bed the next morning. "And, it wasn't our cookie, guys, ok? That's all I'm saying," Amy said, her disgust palpable. She was not taking any chances and Goy and I thought she may be onto something once we walked across the hall and took a whiff of our own room.

Over some lunch and cocktails, we brought each other up to date. And over some crotchety old photo albums, we brought each other down to size with a lot of high-waisted pants and trouser socks. Our plan was to walk around Newburyport, go back to the Inn for a disco nap and then head out to dinner at one of the local establishments, maybe Agave for Mexican or the Mission Oak Grill, where the Inn had given us a $50 gift card.

My friend Dave (the one who coined the "camel" phrase) lives in Newburyport and planned to meet us out for drinks that night, but he contacted us at 3 p.m. with what he called "a better idea." With some "surprise guests" in tow, he suggested we bag our "nice dinner" and just meet them at the the Port Tavern around the corner right now for some appetizers and drinks.

We weren't ready to completely let go of our plan, but we decided to forgo the nap and went down to meet Dave, et al, around 5 p.m.

And soon we were backsliding into the mid-1990s.

Dave had brought along our old friends Clarky, Con and Crev, whom we haven't seen in probably 10-15 years. We used to spend many weekends together in the city: Red Sox games, snow days at the Green Briar, numerous Great Woods tailgates. It was officially impossible not to backslide. Dinner was off. We stayed put.

Chrissy, an empty Seabreeze in front of her, was hell bent on getting girl-drink drunk amid all this backsliding. As she sucked down the remnants of a Sex on the Beach, she pointed disapprovingly at my and Goy's full martinis. "Hey, c'mon, drink up!" She was working her way toward a Sombrero.

I cupped my bowl of loud mouth soup with one hand and pointed a cocktail sword full of vodka-soaked olives at her with the other: "Listen to me, woman. This is straight vodka."

"Corrupt Chrissy" and "Fucking Dave"
Dave has a long memory and is just nostalgic enough to be dangerous. He is the last person you'd want to have witnessed any bad behavior in your youth because he's incapable of holding a conversation in the present tense that doesn't involve something embarrassing you did in the past tense. With one or two words, he can heave ho a random skeleton out your closet.

He started referring to Chrissy as "Corrupt Chrissy" in 1994 when he learned, after a series of weekends in Brighton, that she was not as buttoned up as she carried herself to be. He picked up where he left off 15 years ago. After sparring with Dave for more than 30 minutes over a plate of congealed buffalo wings, Chrissy'd had enough, "Somebody please get fucking Dave away from me."

It took all of 30 minutes for Dave to become "Fucking Dave" all over again.

From his house of cards, where he lives as the guy he used to make fun of 15 years ago, he unleashed his reign of terror (his memory) on everyone at the table.

Clarky pondered: "Seriously, what's wrong with him?"

That's a question for the ages. The dichotomy of Dave. For instance, one minute, he's a dear friend who's got your back: "I'd do anything for you, pal." The next thing you know, he's sending abusive text messages to a mutual friend from YOUR phone.

Which I have yet to explain. Fucking Dave.

We left the Port Tavern and rambled over to the Mission Oak Grill, which used to be a church, to blow our $50 GC on a final round of drinks before heading back.

Goy being Goy, brought a fifth guest into our rooms at the Essex. She abducted a creepy-looking china doll (dubbed Veronica) from the Inn's lobby and took numerous pictures of it in and around the rooms. Chrissy opened a box of Kashi crackers. I almost fell asleep in my wig.

Amy zipped herself into her sleeping bag.

And we called it a night.

Hopefully the first annual!

***********************************************************
Seven Songs of the Day -- 4/1/2009

An Ode to the Mid-90s

1. Mr. Wendell - Arrested Development
2. Any Little Town - Push Stars
3. Shy - Push Stars
4. She's Electric - Oasis
5. Not An Addict - K's Choice
6. Nearly Lost You - Screaming Trees
7. Ridiculous Thoughts - Cranberries

Saints & Camels

Last year when my friend Dr. Nic had a scare in the bosom, she gathered us around a Suppah Club table and told us -- in no uncertain terms – that if she had cancer she would not (repeat NOT) become one of those positive, inspirationally-gooey people who goes around calling her disease a gift and praising God as if he hadn’t been there all along. She'd be on her knees, shaking her fists at fate: “Bloody hell. Why ME? Why the fuck did it have to be ME?”

We nearly passed out laughing and thankfully, she was fine. Still, I knew where she was coming from. She wasn't talking about having a negative attitude. She was talking about the human tendency to go all evangelical and claim to live on a deeper plane than everyone else when faced with a health crisis. She thinks that's horse shit and so do I. Like former smokers who proselytize and wag their fingers in your face, it's a form of self preservation through sanctimony. Your life doesn't have any more meaning than it did before, it just becomes much more evident that you should be paying attention.

Whatever gets you through the night. Prayer is awesome, and so is red wine.

Positively Horrified
My worst nightmare is to become maudlin, but I was shocked when I was recently asked: "How can you be so positive?" What? I'm certainly not in the bell jar 24/7 but I'm not some shitfaced cheerleader in denial, am I? There isn't a day I don't wake up and think: "Oh SHIT, I could die." But then, so could anyone. Look at poor Natasha Richardson.

I guess it's not the notion of "being positive" that irked me so much as the way the question was posed: "How can you be so positive" -- accusatory --- like I was the man who got arrested for sticking a cucumber in his ass at Shaw's.

Don't get me wrong, I want this blog to have a positive vibe, just not a "Chicken Soup for the Soul-y" vibe. I'm striving for a "Dirty (Filthy!) Martinis for the Soul" vibe (or in my case, "Liquid Perc on the Rocks for the Soul.")

Back from the Wasteland (where I was negative)
Everyone has bad days -- even bad months. T.S Eliot said April is the cruelest month. For me, February is the cruelest and March the most sadistic. A couple of bad days this past week/weekend bloomed into a full-on episode -- and I don't believe it was cancer-related, certainly not entirely. I could feel my serotonin levels plummeting, my mood not far behind.

I've had episodes like this before, always around this time of year: A crop of cartoonish thunderclouds move in right over your head and you can't dispel them. Then, the inner hag, sensing your vulnerability, takes up residence in your soul and turns you into a recluse. For several days, you want to jump out of your skin. You have no energy. You find pleasure in nothing. You can't read or respond to emails. You can't listen to music or write. You can't even make a playlist and go for a five mile walk (an oft-proven remedy for such bouts). You can't stand being awake. All you want to do is go to sleep and wake up when the thunderclouds have passed.

Aside: BTW, I'm completely aware this reads like a bad TV ad for Wellbutrin. I probably have Seasonal Affective Disorder, but that's a blog for another day.

This time around, my physical appearance added to my angst. My baldness. Craving nothing, inside or out. I felt completely inhuman. I was talking to James about how the Nazis dehumanized their concentration camp prisoners by shaving the heads and how effective that probably was for everyone involved.

Aside II: James is thrilled that I’ve now managed to involve the Nazis in this week’s existential crisis.

Thankfully my wee brown ones were wrapped up in school and activities and fun with my sainted sister-in-laws who took them out for many an hour. The kids definitely sensed my bad energy. Caroline even said, "Mommy, your face looks funny." I looked in the mirror and sure enough, my face was contorted. I resembled a sour girl from high school who overplucked her eyebrows to the point of nonrecognition. (Just an FYI: Mine have thinned out from the chemo, I have not pruned them into oblivion. My eyelashes have thinned too, hence the clumpy mascara).

Still, my poor kids:

KIDS: Mommy, can you watch me draw a picture? Can you play this game with me?

ME: Mommy just needs to spend a few more minutes under the sink with these inhalants.

Saints in the Inbox
Over the past nine weeks (it's only been nine weeks!!!), I've met and spoken to so many people who are going through breast cancer or have been there. The majority have been unbelievably helpful and I'm thankful to count them as friends. There's Julie who I broke bread and drank wine with at Rustic Kitchen. She speaks of her BC as "a blip on the radar" nine years ago. I love the sound of that. When she entered the land of NED, she renewed her vows and threw a huge bash. I love the sound of that even more. She turns 50 next month and takes her good times seriously. Fuck cancer, it has nothing to do with it!

There's my friend Doreen who I've mentioned many times here.

There are people I've met through the PU and through friends of friends.

I talked to Kelly Tuthill, whose fight with BC I closely followed three years ago. We have identical diagnoses and she's doing awesome these days. She's also a philanthropist with her time. During our conversation, she mentioned that so many people out there are "counting on her to stay healthy." And I thought that is such a blessing and a curse. It's probably hard enough dealing with grabby, newly-diagnosed people like me who are trying to clamor out of the cluelessness, but she said she enjoys talking to people who are going through the war. It's a sentiment I want to pay forward once I reach the land of NED, but you really have to be self-possessed and have a sense of boundaries so you don't become consumed. I'm wondering if I have them.

Camel Crossing!
Because, based on my interaction with a handful of people, I can see how easy it would be to become consumed. (Let's just say I will never attend another support group). I'll mention three examples: The first woman was a stage 1 and recovering from surgery with an excellent prognosis. The second has been cancer free for almost two years and the third one should, at the very least, be out interviewing bands for her NED celebration. Each of them was dour and negative, seemingly hanging around on hooks waiting for their cancer to advance, recur and take them out once and for all. Together, however, they were a united front: "How can you be so positive?" I felt obligated to try to talk these people off the ledge. Mistake. I should've recognized these types a mile away.

My friend Dave would call these people “camels.”

Camel (n.): One who makes misery for the sake of making misery. Name inspired by the melancholic facial expression of the common camel.

ME: Dave, don't be so judgmental, maybe he/she is just having a bad day.

DAVE: Maybe people he/she is just being a camel. Being a camel because they can be.

Dave's banal, often stereotypical labels for people used to get on my nerves, but man, he was right on with this one. Because, every single time, the "camel" in question was not just having a bad day. It was always something. It was a lifestyle choice.

Example of a common camel: If it's someone's birthday, a holiday party, a wedding, a bridal shower, any reason to celebrate outside the house, the camel will manufacture a crisis. They will either get sick beforehand or find a reason to be offended and leave once they've arrived. Your 40th birthday will coincidentally turn out to be the 14th anniversary of of the camel's grandmother's death. The night of your holiday party, the camel will come down with a crushing migraine and throw up in the hotel lobby (or tell you they did).

Camels.

So went the conversations with current and former cancer patients: Graphic bowel issues. Leg pain. It's only a matter of time. Always looking over your shoulder. How can you be so positive?

MF camels. If it wasn't cancer, it'd be something else. It's always something.

Ten years from now, these same women will be attending support groups, hell bent on spooking other "positive" assholes like me.

Ask T.S. Eliot
I was looking for a quote from one of his poems because I was thinking about an essay my niece Sarah wrote about her mother, my sister-in-law Paula, who has ovarian cancer. She wrote about "the seasons" and how during the winter months, her mother was sick and bald and was in and out of treatment. Then, springtime came and her mother's hair was growing back. She knew she was getting better when she saw Paula on her hands and knees digging out flower beds and planting annuals. Her essay conveyed a genuine love of life and an appreciation for the turn of the seasons -- something I've always felt deeply connected to as well, particularly this year.

"What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish?"
-T.S.

This past week, Paula and Sarah flew off to Florida with family and friends to celebrate Jon's cancer-free scans (Yahoo!) Because that's what they do: they celebrate the present. They also know that 38 degrees in March is complete bullshit and unworthy of their presence.

"We should be on Ellen!"
- Paula, on the amount of family members currently undergoing treatment at DF.

Anyway...
Their attitudes strike such a sharp contrast to those of the camels' who -- as camels tend to -- have an inherent distaste for life.

But I give thanks to the camels because they pissed me off! In anger there is adrenaline! And adrenaline is a natural serotonin booster. I'm back on my game.

The "readers guide" for that T.S. poem said "living a life devoid of meaning is death.” That's pretty bad, but it's even worse, I think, to manufacture misery or aspire to have a shitty day.
Don't be a camel.

That said, the thunderclouds have lifted and I’m pre-ordering a case of champagne to be uncorked upon my arrival in the land of NED.

**********************************************
Seven Songs of the Day -- 3/23/2009

Here I Come - Luscious Jackson
In the Journey - Martin Sexton
Stronger - Kanye West
Support System - Liz Phair
Dreams - The Cranberries
You Are the Best Thing - Ray LaMontagne
I Won't Back Down - Tom Petty

Courtesy of Michelle X. Curran (aka Singuloso)

(p.s. Congratulations on your new baby boy, Michelle!)

The Last Drip (on the really crap stuff)

At the Southie parade yesterday, I stood under the sun at the corner of A & Broadway, sweating and itching in my wig for a couple of hours. But I didn't care: I was drinking red wine out of a giant red keg cup, the mood was far too celebratory and the weather far too beautiful to let a little sweating and itching get in the way. My brother kept yelling out, at random, "Itching powder in the sleeping bags!" Mikey Carter careened down Broadway as part of the Chinese Dragon again -- all business, swirling his piece of the dragon into colorful, dancing loops.

Mar. 16, Home, 7:30 a.m.
I'm thinking about what a great day we had yesterday as I ready my wig to head into the DF. I usually wear a wig or skull cap into treatment and then suddenly realize how silly this is. There is no need to itch and sweat beneath a wig at the Dana Farber Cancer Center. Clearly, I'm one of their people. It's no secret. I've seen plenty of baldies coming and going.

So, I decide I will go to my last AC treatment bald. But then I look in the mirror at my tiny bald alien head -- and I just can't do it. Probably for the same reason I haven’t posted a bald photo of myself on the blog. It's mostly vanity, but I also tend to forget all about the temporary tattoos the kids have posted all over my glossy dome – Shamrocks, Easter eggs, hearts, the Backyardigans, a couple of Spidermans, etc.

Aside: I’m also afraid to post a bald photo on this blog because somewhere down the road, someone may search my name for or a job interview or something more important, hit on the Google image and think I’m some kind of violent anarchist (Backyardigans tatoos notwithstanding).

Maybe when I make peace with the baldness, I'll post a pic. I'm not ready yet.

Aside II: I don't know why I even bother hiding under the wigs. Whenever we're out and about , Caroline loves to announce to anyone within earshot: “See my mom?! She’s wearing a wig! And she has tattoos on her head!!!" Both kids also refer to me as "baldy."

So, I compromise. Instead of the wig or skull cap, I opt for a silk scarf. My friend CK recently suggested I get a Hermes scarf and really turn this MF out. I don’t have a Hermes scarf, but I do have one that aspires to be - we'll call it my “Fermes” scarf. I wrap it around my head, tie a couple of funky knots in the back and let it hang over my left shoulder (just grazing the top of Lefty). I kind of look like a fortune teller but I like it; it looks and feels more feminine and celebratory than a skull cap.

Aside III: I’ve always wanted to wear my "Fuck Cancer" skull cap into the DF, but did not want to offend any patients who may not appreciate the word "fuck" quite as much as I do.

DF 9, 8:40 a.m.
Our appointment is at 8:45 and everything seems to be running very quickly this morning. I’m trying to wolf down a green apple but keep getting called in for prep work. "Kathryn!" Come and get your vitals.

Back to the waiting room. Two more bites of apple. "Kathryn!" Come and get your Blood work.

Back to waiting room. Not even one more bite. "Kathryn!" Come and get your IV.

For whatever reason, my veins are not cooperating today. After three tries, the nurse sends me back into the waiting room until another nurse can give it a go.

Back to the waiting room. Green apple is turning brown so I ditch it. My right arms looks like that of a heroin addict (in perfect keeping with the degenerate fantasy of last week).

Finally, I get called back again and this nurse gets the IV on her second try, this time on my left arm. She said "It's like your veins are running away from us today."

I'm thinking, "Of course they are, they probably know the red death awaits them. I'd run too."

James and I head off down the corridor to meet with our doctors Ann & Katie.

ANN: So, another patient of mine told me that I have a patient named Kate with this great blog I have to check out. She kept saying 'Kate' and I couldn't place you, but then I got the link and saw your picture and instantly knew: Kathryn Jackson. How could we not been calling you "Kate Jackson" this whole time.

We realized it's because we've been all business, all about the tumor and treatment. "Call me Kate" never even crossed my mind.

ANN: Anyway, my other patient said she’s hooked on your blog and that you’re a great writer. I can’t wait to read some more of this.

Now it's only a matter of time before Ann refers to me as KJ. At least I hope so.

[POINTY NOTE: To this “other patient of Ann':" Thank you very much for your kind words. For a few moments there, I was so flattered that I forgot I was sitting topless in a hospital johnny. Feel free to email me anytime. Thank you, again!]

Ann tells me she’ll definitely check out the PU, but now it’s time to check out Lefty.

Katie tells Ann my tumor feels much softer and smaller, almost like it was detaching from the chest wall. This sounds just GREAT to James and me as we remember the first words used to describe the tumor were: “Hard and massive.” “Undifferentiated.” “Can’t tell where tumor ends and normal tissue begins.”

ANN: (feeling me up). If I didn’t know you had a cancer in here, I wouldn’t even be able to tell by feeling it. Of course, you have really dense breasts, but still, I wouldn't be able to pinpoint it. And that's just after two months of AC. That's great.

Aside IV: “Dense breasts” – Now there are two words placed side-by- side that make me shudder a bit. Kind of like LPD’s reaction to the words: moist pork stain.

This whole appointment puts me in a good mood as we fly off to our final AC infusion. My scarf tails are flying out being me like I have a kite on my head.

***
DF 10, 9:45 a.m.
The chemo nurse is an enigma but we’re up for the challenge.

Not North Shore.
Not Metro West
Not the City, but maybe at some point in her life.

She lies the IV bags on my arm rest. Some nauseu meds, some hydration, the Cytoxan (the “C” in the “AC”) and the three red vials of Adriamycin (the “A” in the “AC”…or shall I say the “ASS”).

"This is your last AC," she says. "You must be happy."

No hint of a Boston accent, still James and I are focused on South of Boston. Still, we can tell she's going to be a challenge because she's not much for the small talk and shit-shat (while this is a quality I would probably revere in a chemo nurse, it doesn't bode well for our silly little "guess where the nurse is from" game.)

The nurse hooks up the hydration and nauseau meds, puts on her hazmat gear and places the three vials of red death on the arm rest. Suddenly, I have to use the loo. "I'll be right back."

I glide over to the restrooms with my IV caddy and find there is a line for one of the two bathrooms (the other is being cleaned). Another young woman with an IV caddy glides up behind me. She's looks a little younger than me and has some cute peach fuzz growing back on her head.

YOUNG WOMAN: Oh, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a line here.

ME: Me neither, just one stall open. I think I'm avoiding my treatment.

YW: Have to get in before the drugs kick in! I love your scarf. How did you tie it in the back here?

ME: I don’t know. I couldn’t see what I was doing. Are you sure it doesn’t make me look like a fortune teller?

YW: (shakes her head). No no.

ME: I am too self conscious to go completely bald.

YW. I was too, but now I have some hair back so it's not as bad. You're just happy to have some hair.

Just then, the bathroom door opens and some guy with a goatee, a full head of hair and no IV caddy emerges from the restroom with a Boston Herald tucked under his arm. A foul cloud of stink emerges right behind him.

Me: (under my breath) Oh no.

GOATEE: Oh! Sorry ladies. I didn’t know there was a line. Woops!

YW: You're sorry!?

We both laugh and simultaneously agree : The stench is NOT good for the tumor! We decide to hold it and glide back to our respective chemo stalls.

James is staring at the nurse, his mind working over time.

ME: “I’m back.”

JAMES (mouthing)' "Scituate? Braintree?"

I nod in agreement and mouth “Marshfield?”

Maybe.

But then our brother-in-law Jon stops by (he also had an appointment at the DF today). He mentions how he's heading off to "slumlord his property in Weymouth" and the nurse doesn’t bite. Damnit. Again, she's not talkative so maybe she wouldn't have been so easily-lured to the typical South Shore small talk.

The nurse starts administering the red death and that familiar feeling of ill-being invades. It’s the Anti-Roxicet. But unlike the Roxicet, this invasion is crappy and hangs around for an entire week.

But, just knowing this is the last time makes it so much more palatable.

Again, my veins aren’t cooperating.

NURSE: (twisting tubes, rooting around with my IV) Your veins are really making me work for it today. It’s like they’ve had enough of this stuff.

ME: (watching the red death trying to weasle its way into my veins) They sure have.

The Replacements take over:

“Hurry up! Hurry up! Ain’t you had enough of this stuff!”

Now I’m focused less on where our nurse is from and more on what makes this Adriamycin – RED! I can’t believe I hadn’t asked (or Googled it) before.

ME: “So, what makes this stuff red anyway.?

[I can tell nurse either doesn’t really know or doesn’t really want me to know.]

NURSE: Hmm..Maybe some kind of dye?

The Replacements take over again, replacing "Red, Red Wine on Sundays, always feels so good" with:

“Red Red Dye on Mondays, always feels like ass."

The nurse finally gets the stew flowing and finishes the first, second and finally the third and final vial of the red death. James and I give each other a little ceremonial dap as the nurse starts hooking up the bag of Cytoxan to my IV. Now it’s just one more hour sitting on the drip.

I’m about to Google “What makes Adriamycin red” when another nurse passes by with a ginormous – we’re talking really huge -- gift basket of treats.

JAMES: (joking) “Oh, I see my basket has arrived. They must be delivering it to the wrong stall.”

But seconds later, the nurse backtracks, “Are you Kate?”

ME: Yes?

I look at James incredulously who is looking at the nurse the same way.

NURSE: Well, This beautiful basket here is for you? Is it your birthday?

ME; (tearing up) NO, no. It’s just my last day of treatment, well of the AC at least.

NURSE: That's definitely reason to celebrate! Enjoy!

It’s from my old college friends Mary, Gail and Julie, whom I’ve reconnected with, thanks to the upside of Facebook. They always have the most uplifting wall posts but this unbelievable. Just an amazing booty of treats!

[To Mary, Gail, Julie: Thanks so much, guys. I don’t even know what to say. People are walking up and down the corridor just to get a peek.]

The last of the Cytoxan drips into my arm and we're out of here. We head for the elevators with many big basket gawkers in our wake. We pick up my prescriptions and roll out the front doors of the DF, free for the next two weeks.

The next phase, starting March 30 and continuing every Monday for three months, is supposed to be far less taxing with fewer side effects and manageable fatique. The "TH" phase contains only one chemo drug called Taxol and a magical antibody called Herceptin that's been known to kick the living shit out of HER2+ tumors.

As we wait for the valet to bring our car around, the drugs are starting to make me feel tired and I lean into James a bit. But over his shoulder, I see what has become an all too familiar site at the DF the past few weeks.

A young child, a girl, in an umbrella stroller, not more than 18 months, bald and smiling.

When you see this, it really puts everything into perspective. (We think of Aoife’s and John’s Naimh, as we often do.)

And we think: Breast cancer, we can do. We could NEVER do that. I don’t know how those who are forced to, do.



P.S. The nurse was from EASTON. Technically, south of Boston, but we could've done much better!

************************************************
Seven Songs of the Day --- 3/17/09

Some Irish songs for St. Paddy's Day! Courtesy of Susan Sullivan.

1. The Unicorn (The Irish Rovers)
2. Wild Rover (The Jolly Beggerman)
3. When Irish Eyes Are Smiling (Bing Crosby)
4. Molly Malone (The Clancy Brothers)
5. Fields of Athenry (Dropkick Murphys)
6. Irish Rover (The Pouges)
7. Auld Lang Syne (Mairi Campbell)

And..some Irish artists

1. Tuesday Morning -- Pogues
2. Precious Little -- Eleanor McEvoy
3. My Wild Irish Rose -- The Pushstars (ok, not Irish, but Boston Irish)
4. Ridiculous Thoughts -- Cranberries
5. So Young -- Corrs
6. Isn't it Amazing -- Hothouse Flowers
7. Moment of Surrender -- U2

-- KJ

"On" Weekend #4 - Just the JPEGs (and some wigs)

Make video montages at www.OneTrueMedia.com

Bragging Rights

(Eating down the fridge)

My friend Nancy has been chronicling her culinary adventures Down Under on her blog The Roving Lemon since last fall. But this week, she's bringing it back to the States. The Washington Post asked Nancy to guest blog for their popular food site, "A Mighty Appetite," this week (alongside other food writers of gastronomic proportions). Right where she should be. Check it out here, but not before checking the produce drawer of your fridge for a bag of rotting carrots. Way to go, N! I can't wait to try your new creation.

Damn, It Feels Good to be a

"An emergency prescription for Roxicet" -- music to my ears after my doctor told me my sore throat was likely being caused by lesions on my esophagus. Nasty! But I have to admit it made me feel like less of a wimp for letting a sore throat bring me down so hard and fast. Lesions, man!

Roxicet, which is as fun as it sounds, is basically liquid percocet -- and it's like butter. A half a teaspoon of this stuff and it's all rainbows and unicorns and Turtles' songs. It's an overwhelming sense of well being. It's Happy Time. I sat slack jawed on the couch, staring at the TV with my tongue hanging out for about 20 minutes before I realized I was stoned out of my mind. Why the hell am I watching Walker, Texas Ranger? I turned off the TV, put on the new U2, and passed out on my yoga mat next to Vito after a brief stare down contest. I woke up a few minutes later and played Star Wars sound effects on my iPhone, cracking up -- every single time -- at C-3P0's voice: "We're doomed!" Usually, it's Chewie who cracks me up. While on drugs, it's C-3P0 apparently.

It's a good thing that I have roots because I could so easily become a drug addict or a transient. I had an epiphany similar to Cameo's from the 1990s about the path of least resistance. One morning, Cam spotted a pretty rancid guy on the Red Line on her way into work. It was not yet 8 a.m. and the man was clearly wasted. He was talking to an equally rancid friend, his partner in crime (or in this case, his partner in stanking up the train.) The man smiled at his friend, patted his filthy front jacket pocket that contained a bottle of Captain Morgan's, and in a gravelly voice said: "El Captain! El Captain!"

"He just seemed so carefree," Cameo thought, sitting there stressed out in her nylons, heels and business suit, wanting to be dropped off anywhere but her corporate job. "Lead us not into South Station." This guy is onto something, she thought. The early morning grooming is exhausting enough, not to mention the workplace anxiety under 'the man.' It would be so much easier to just be dirty and drunk on the T all day without a care in the world.

On my "off" weeks, I already feel like Nick Nolte's mug shot (except bald.) I thought about Scary Mary, another AM drunk who used to hang out at the Wood Island T station. Whenever you walked by her, she may or may not have swung her plastic bag of dishtowels and limes at you and tell you to go fuck yourself. You just never knew if it was going to be you or the guy behind you. So I thought about putting some Roxicet in my front jacket pocket and heading down to the West Hingham Commuter Rail station -- and whatever happens happens. But then I sobered up. It's time to get off the junk.

***********************
Seven Songs of the Day -- 3/10/09

1. “The Underdog” Spoon (Love this song. It’s a good “fuck you” to any entity that thinks its indestructible)

2. “Hospital Food” David Gray

3. “Missed the Boat” Modest Mouse

4. “The Painter” Neil Young

5. “All for One” from High School Musical Cast (Olivia suggested this one)

6. “Take Me Out” Franz Ferdinand

--Courtesy of M. Draper

The Inevitable Beat Down

It’s official. Just when I thought we were getting away with it, the AC chemo is rearing its MF “cumulative” effects. Even though we never jinxed it by saying it out loud, the sentiment was there and that was enough.

The sneaky little fucker has slowly but surely started robbing me of days on my “on” week. Right now, it’s beating me down in the form of a narcotic-worthy sore throat. It’s been two days of Nyquil comas and strange dreams with 1970s imagery (which I’m sure are Lost-related, but nevertheless strange.) In one, I was bald with sideburns. In another, James was wearing a denim vest and we lived in a tent in Sacramento.

The sore throat is ungodly. I don’t think I have felt this level of pain since the failed epidurals of 2003. But now -- just like then -- I am no hero. When the OTC drugs fail to get the job done, it’s time to call in the big guns and go on a wee pharmaceutical vacation.

In the meantime, the side effects are making me angry and antsy. But I am forcing myself to acknowledge how unbelievably fortunate I have been to make it this far into the Red Death treatment with more "on" days than "off" ones. I'm lucky that I only have one of these treatments left and can move on to the second, less aggressive phase. The "off" days are numbered.

I'm lucky to have plans on the calendar this week to look forward to. I’ve been preparing my wig for a Thursday night Suppah Club at Jess’s and a Friday night dinner at Ivy. (The last time this particular crowd got together, the night ended with me falling into a planter outside the Warren Tavern.) I can't wait to see everyone and refuse to be sidelined. I'll be there. I may be on drugs, but I'll be there.

*************************************

Seven Songs of the Day -- 3/10/09

On the TimTams

1. It's a Beautiful Morning - The Rascals

2. Barefootin' - Robert Parker

3. California Soul - Marlena Shaw

4. Don't You Worry 'Bout a Thing - Stevie Wonder

5. Do You Know the Way to San Jose? - Dionne Warwick

6. Wouldn't It Be Nice - The Beach Boys

7. I Can See Clearly Now - Johnny Nash

- Courtesy of The Roving Lemon